


Lost in Translation

by QueensJenn



Category: Ylvis
Genre: Brotherly feels, Gen, No pairing - Freeform, hurt/comfort of the highest magnitude, inspired by recent events, poor sick solsikke, strep throat, stubborn norwegians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueensJenn/pseuds/QueensJenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bård doesn't talk. Vegard doesn't listen. And in the end, everything may come crashing down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bård wakes to the sound of his alarm and Vegard banging around, getting dressed. He groans and buries his face in the pillows, and then stops.

 

This isn’t his bed. This isn’t his bedroom. What the hell would Vegard even be doing in his bedroom anyway?

 

Oh, right.

 

He groans into the pillow again, and then a third time as Vegard shakes his shoulder.

 

“Come on, time to get up. You don’t want to be late.” 

 

“Late for what?”

 

“We have an interview at nine, before rehearsal.”

 

Fuck.

 

The show for Save the Children or Children in Need or something like that. It’s a noble cause to be sure, and a worthy venue for their first international performance, and really, it had sounded perfect when they’d accepted the gig weeks ago.

 

Of course, that was before Bård had come down with the cold from hell, that had mutated into some kind of throat infection from beyond hell. His head is pounding and his throat feels like it’s made of shards of glass (fucking hell, it hurts to even _breathe)_ and all he wants is to stay buried here in bed, not to have to go out and answer question after boring question in English. 

 

The blankets rustle, and then are pulled off completely. Bård yelps in shock at the cool air, then grimaces at the raw pain that causes.

 

“Come on. Up. There’s tea ready.” 

 

Giving on last longing look at the bed (which pretty nice, as far as hotel beds go, and for once he doesn’t even have to share it with his brother), Bård gets up and pulls on his clothes. Something simple today; he really doesn’t have the energy for anything fancy. 

 

As Vegard promised, there is tea waiting for them. Bård drops a generous amount of honey into his and sips at it, hoping it might soothe his throat long enough to get through the interview. 

 

(He won’t think about the show just yet.) 

 

The interview is with some TV station or another. There’s a brief discussion on whether or not to wear costumes, and thankfully, the general consensus is no. Bård wraps his scarf more tightly around his neck, and digs his hands into his pockets because fucking hell it’s cold in the studio, even under the big lights.

 

He lets Vegard take the questions for once. How much more can one say about a dumb novelty song anyway? The questions are all the same, and Vegard knows the answers as well as Bård. 

 

Fuck, he’ll be glad when this is all done. He’s beginning to regret ever making the song in the first place. 

 

But that’s neither here nor there, at the moment, because the song was made, it became insanely popular, and right now, it’s their job to ride it out. And if that means sitting in a freezing cold TV studio at 8:30 in the morning, answering yet another round of questions (and having their names mangled), then so be it.

 

“What’s wrong with you today?” Vegard asks, when the interview is finally complete and they’re waiting for the car to take them to rehearsal.

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“You barely talked at all. That’s not like you.”

 

Bård pauses. It’s on the tip of his tongue to admit that he feels like shit, but something holds him back. Vegard wouldn’t understand - he’d once done an entire interview with a comic book collector while battling the stomach flu. He shouldn’t have been there, but he’d never once complained. 

  
So he shrugs. “Just tired.”

 

“I’m jet-lagged too, bro. I hear you.” 

 

“Hm.” 

 

“How can you wear that scarf? I’m sweating like a pig, it must have been a million degrees in that place.”

 

Bård looks at him, but Vegard has already stopped paying attention in favour of his phone. He breathes a sigh of relief, then swallows painfully, and winces.

 

It’s only a few more hours. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing a bit with the timeline. This show is supposed to be the British one they just did in London, but pretend that it's their first international performance too. 
> 
> As always, this takes place in an AU where they don't have wives and kids.

If there’s one good thing that can be said about rehearsal, it’s that the auditorium is warm. Otherwise, Bård thinks that he might be in hell. His headache hasn’t gotten any better, and if it’s possible, his throat his gotten _worse_. The studio lights are big and hot and suddenly he’s sweating in his jacket and scarf. He shrugs the jacket off but keeps the scarf; even if it’s not really doing anything, it feels better than not having it, so he’ll put up with it for now. 

 

The rehearsal is long, and the show promises to be annoying. In addition to their loyal team of dancers, there’s going to be a number of B-list British celebs performing with them, and they all have to be taught the dance moves as well.

 

 _It’s for a good cause_ , he reminds himself as the rehearsal drags into its third hour. Now he’s beginning to wish he’d eaten something for breakfast. The combination of hunger and pain and weariness is trying his temper, and he knows he has to keep calm. This is their first international performance; they have to make a good impression. 

 

So he clenches his fists and bites back his anger, and lashes out at the only safe target - Vegard.

 

“This is going well,” Vegard remarks as one of the celebs storms offstage, feelings piqued.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Vegard rolls his eyes, long since used to his brother’s rather erratic answers at times.

 

“Oh come on. It’s not that bad.”

 

“Why did we choose this?”

 

“Because it’s for children. Who are in need. You love kids, you should be happy about this.” 

 

“I love kids, I don’t love them.” He jerks his head in the direction of two teenagers who have taken advantage of the break to start clowning around for the cameras.

 

“I dunno...kind of reminds me of us.”

 

“Hm.” Bård swallows, tries not to whimper, and wishes Vegard would just shut the fuck up.

 

“Jurgen called, by the way.”

 

Jurgen, their manager. The one who’d gotten them this performance. Ordinarily, a call form him would be most welcome. Right now, it feels like a death sentence.

 

“What does he want?”

 

“He might have another gig for us tomorrow. An interview and another gig. Think you can stand doing the song one more time? Just our dancers this time, promise.”

 

“Fuck no.”

 

Vegard laughs at this. “I know, I know. But why not, eh? While we’re here? We’ll never get another chance, you know. Once this craze dies down in a few more weeks, we’ll never have to do it again. Or at least, not for a very long time.”

 

“Thank God.”

 

“Until we come up with the next shit novelty song.”

 

Bård groans, and it’s only somewhat due to the pain in his throat. “Never. Never, ever again. I vote we give up music videos entirely.”

 

“Oh come on.”

 

“I mean it. We’ll do more Hyss, more pranks, fuck, give Magnus his own segment.” He pulls his jacket back on and stuffs his hands in the pockets. He’d been fighting the urge to swallow for the last several minutes, but it’s become unbearable. He hisses with pain, and winces. Vegard had to have seen that. 

 

The female celeb is back, evidently placated. The choreographer motions to the guy in the sound booth, and suddenly the track booms through the auditorium. It’s just the backing track, but it’s good enough to teach the dance.

 

It hits him then, for real. He’s going to have to sing. Live. 

 

 _I can’t,_ he thinks wildly. _Not like this, I can barely fucking talk, how can I do this?_

 

He looks to Vegard, as if his brother can help him somehow. But Vegard is watching the dancers, and not paying Bård any attention at all.

 

“Looks good!” Vegard calls, as the song draws to a close. He glances at his watch. “Just in time, too - the show starts in an hour.”

 

An hour. An hour until he has to sing. Maybe, maybe he’ll feel better by then. If he rests his voice, if he takes it easy, maybe...

 

He swallows. Not fucking likely. There’s nothing for it, he’ll just have to get through it.

 

He swallows again. Oh, God. Help. 

 

He sighs. It’s only 5:00, and he’s exhausted. No, worse than that. Exhausted, he can deal with that. This is like a fog, a haze all around him. Worst of all, he’s _missing_ words here and there, and the only good thing is that they won’t be expected to speak in English at all during this gig. 

 

Of course, he could aways leave that to Vegard. His brother has never gotten to speak this much during interviews. He’s probably enjoying this immensely. The bastard. He must know that Bård’s...a bit under the weather.

 

(He won’t say he’s sick, because that feels too much like giving in; like if he admits it, that makes it too real, and right now he has to tell himself it’s not. It’s the only way he’ll get through.) 

 

(He’s not going to get through this.)

 

“Boys, it’s just about time,” the director calls, bustling over to them. He’s short and excitable, and speaks entirely too quickly for Bård’s liking. 

 

“Time?”

 

“Get to makeup. Be quick about it, now.”

 

Makeup. Fuck. At least he’ll be able to sit down for awhile. 

 

“Come on,” Vegard says, rolling his eyes when the director is out of sight. “You heard the man.”

 

The makeup room isn’t far, at least, and he settles down into the chair with a sigh. Everything hurts. Even his hair hurts. Even his eyelashes hurt.

 

The makeup artist is a younger woman who introduces herself as Cindy. She’s pretty, and keeps up a constant stream of chatter which is friendly without requiring him to respond, so Bård decides he likes her. At least, until she takes the foundation sponge  to his face, then stops and frowns, and puts her hand on his forehead.

 

“Are you feeling okay? You’re very warm. I think you might have a bit of a fever.”

 

Oh, shit. He can’t exactly deny it. “Ah... _nei_ ,” he whispers. Fuck. 

 

She looks around. “I shouldn’t do this, but I’ve got some Paracetamol in my purse, if you want it.”

 

Then he thinks he _loves_ her. 

 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “ _Takk._ ” 

 

Getting the pills down is hard, but he forces himself to. It’s the only way. The performance is looming closer, and he feels worse than ever. 

 

He’s not going to make it through the song. There’s no way. It’s just not going to happen. Not live, anyway. There’s only one way that this is going to work, and he knows Vegard will hate him for it (not to mention the producers, but fuck them). 

 

Vegard is waiting for him in the greenroom when he’s finally out of makeup, and suddenly all Bård wants is his brother, like an overwhelming urge. He’s miserable and feeling shitty, but he knows Vegard will help him. He’ll understand. He has to.

 

He sits down heavily on the couch beside his brother, and rests his head on Vegard’s shoulder. He feels Vegard shift to look at him, and closes his eyes. He’s _so_ tired. 

 

“Ready to go on?”

 

“I don’t feel good,” Bård whispers.

 

“Are you going to puke?”

 

“No. My throat hurts.”

 

“Still? You’ve had that for weeks. You made me kiss an old lady, remember?”

 

“I know. I...I don’t know if I can sing.”

 

“You have to.”

 

“I can’t...can’t we just...you know...”

 

“We can’t use playback, Bård.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Everyone’s expecting us to sing live. We’ll be completely embarrassed if we don’t. Our careers will be ruined, you know the guys back home won’t take it well. Besides, we didn’t even bring the right track. You’re just going to have to tough it out.”

 

“Fuck.” 

 

“You’ll be okay. Once you get out there you’ll be fine.”

 

He doesn’t answer. He can’t think about it, can’t think about the show, can’t think about anything but the pain. He shifts over to rest against Vegard’s chest, tucking his head under his chin. Vegard is warm and soft and comforting, and Bård feels like he might be in heaven. Now if only someone would give them a blanket, he thinks he could stay like this forever.

 

_And maybe a bun. Yeah, a bun would be nice right now._

 

He swallows again, and can’t hold back a whimper of pain.

 

_No, maybe the bun will have to wait._

 

“Bård.”

 

_Maybe just some tea._

 

“Bård.”

 

_Hot tea, with honey...and maybe some lemon too..._

 

“Bård!”

 

He struggles to open his eyes. “What?”

 

“You’re falling asleep.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Don’t do that. Come on, sit up.”

 

“Why.”

 

“People are looking.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Well I do! Come on, you little brat,” he says affectionately. “Sit up. It’s time to get our costumes on.”

 

Bård sits up and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I feel like shit.”

 

“You’ll be just fine.”

 

He’s _not_ just fine. The performance is three minutes of raw, exquisite agony, the likes of which Bård has never experiences before. He feels like someone is pouring acid down his throat while simultaneously dragging knives through it and pounding spikes into his joints and...

 

And then the strangest thing happens. The song ends and the audience rises to its feet as one, clapping and cheering, and Bård feels the pain _lift_ like magic. Vegard was right, he’s fine, he’s better, it’s okay now, it’s over.

 

“Let’s do it,” he says as they take the tunnel backstage. “Let’s do the gig tomorrow!”

 

“Great!” Vegard says. “I’ll call Jurgen and let him now. I knew you’d be okay, Bård. You were just fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were supposed to be 4 chapters of this fic, but this one was getting super long so I split it into 2. I'll post the next part soon.

That night, Bård learns the meaning of “endorphin rush.”

 

He also learns what it’s like to be so tired you can’t sleep. 

 

The bed is nice, moreso than most hotel beds, but he can’t get comfortable. Under the covers he’s too hot, and without them he’s too cold, until it hits about 2am and he’s just cold all over no matter what he does. 

 

His throat hurts now even without swallowing; a constant sharp throb that wakes him up even when he does manage to doze off. 

 

Vegard is snoring contentedly in the other bed, and Bård thinks he hates him, just a little. The other part of him is desperately tempted to climb in beside him and just hold tight, to make the room stop spinning, to keep the strange, vivid fever-dreams away, to get warm, to make the pain finally stop, just for a little while. 

 

But that would be weird, and Vegard would probably just tell him to go back to his own bed anyway, so he lays there, shivering, sweating and sleepless until he opens his eyes to find Vegard standing over him, looking annoyed.

 

“I’ve been calling you for ten minutes! You’re going to make us late. Again.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Almost 5. We need to be at the TV studio for 6.”

 

5:00 in the morning. Fuck. 

 

“I don’t think I can,” he whispers. His headache has blossomed from a dull throb into a sharp pounding that has as much to do with lack of sleep as it does sickness. It hurts too much to keep his eyes open, so he lets them fall shut again.

 

“Yes you can. Get up. You’ll feel better if you eat something.” 

 

He wants to try again, to say ‘please, please don’t make me get up,’ but that sounds too much like begging and his pride won’t let him do that. His pride is about all he has at the moment, so he steels himself, throws back the covers, and stands up.

 

The room tilts alarmingly, but he squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again, and finally feels more steady. 

 

It’s only a few more hours. How bad can it be? Then they’ll be on a plane back home, and things can get back to normal for a little while. He’s come this far, he can go a little farther.

 

Once again there’s breakfast laid out on the table, and this time Bård Bårdknows better than to try to go without eating at least something. He chooses a banana and eats it slowly. It hurts, but he forces it down, along with copious amounts of tea and honey.

 

By the time they leave for the studio, he’s almost feeling human again.

 

At least for the first half-hour. Then he becomes uncomfortably aware of how hot the studio lights are, and just how uneasily the banana is sitting in his stomach. He swallows and tries not to think about it. 

 

And then he realizes that everyone is staring at him. Evidently, the host had just asked him a question. Costumes. Something about the costumes.

 

“The costumes...” he begins, the english words feeling clumsy in his mouth. “I’m actually a...” fuck. “bjørn.”

 

“I’m sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”

 

He swallows. “A...” fucking shit!

 

“A bear,” Vegard comes to his rescue, but not before giving him a sharp kick under the table. “He’s a bear, I’m a squirrel.” He looks at Bård, as if expecting him to elaborate on that point, but Bård just shrugs. Vegard rolls his eyes and continues on explaining how that particular situation had come about. Bård sits quietly for the rest of the interview, nodding at the right time and trying to pretend that he’s not humiliated by his slip-up.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Vegard asks when it’s finally all over and they’re back in the greenroom. 

 

“Nothing. I don’t know. Just tired. And my throat hurts.”

 

“You were fine last night after the show.”

 

“I know.” He swallows. “Can we just...not talk for awhile?” 

 

Vegard shrugs and picks up his phone. Bård leans forward, puts his head in his hands, and tries not to think about anything. Least of all about the show coming up. At least its not for a few more hours. Maybe he can even convince Vegard that they should go back to the hotel for awhile, before going to the studio. It’s not like they even have to be there super-early; an hour before to rehearse once or twice is plenty. A chill runs through him, and it’s decided. A hot shower and a long nap is a fine idea. 

 

“Vegard?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I think we--” but he’s cut off by Vegard’s phone suddenly going off.

 

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Jurgen. Here, I’ll put it on speaker...”

 

He comes over and stands next to Bård, putting their manager on speakerphone. 

 

“I’ve got you another interview lined up!” he says excitedly. “I know it’s short notice, but I don’t think it’ll take long.”

 

Bård closes his eyes and leans his head against Vegard’s side. Even though he knew it was coming, it’s the last thing he wants to hear.

 

“Tell him no,” he mouths.

 

“Hold on,” Vegard says, and puts the phone on mute. “We have to, Bård.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“I don’t either. Look, I know you’re tired. But this is a good opportunity. It won’t take long, and then we’ll do the show, and then we’ll go home. Real home.” 

 

“Please, Vegard,” he says, so softly its barely more than a whisper. He won’t beg. He won’t. 

“We have to, Bård. We’re not really getting a choice, no matter what they say. You know it’s just going to be the same thing as all the others. It’s not like we’re going to have to think too hard about it.”

 

He knows when he’s beat. “Fine,” he sighs. 

 

“That’s my boy.” Vegard pats his shoulder then un-mutes the phone.

 

“We’ll do it,” he says.

 

Jurgen, understandably, is delighted. “Excellent! I’ll send a car over immediately. You’ll have to hurry, it’ll take some time to get across town.”

 

"You heard him," Vegard sighs as he hangs up the call. "let's get downstairs so we don't keep them waiting. God knows we don't want to be late."

 

He does want to be late, Bård thinks as they step out of the building. The sunlight is way too fucking bright and he squints against it. Fuck, that hurts.

 

The car pulls up before too long. They get in and Bård immediately slumps against his brother.

 

Vegard looks at him, but mercifully doesn't say anything, only shifts over so Bård can rest more comfortably against his shoulder.

 

The driver apologizes and tells them it's going to take at least 45 minutes to get across town with the traffic, but Bård thinks that he's never heard anything so sweet. He snugs his face into the crook of Vegard's neck, closes his eyes, and is not aware of anything else until he is shaken awake. The clock on the dashboard states that almost exactly 45 minutes have passed. He steps out of the car and stretches.

 

“You look better,” Vegard remarks.

 

“Hmm,” Bård agrees. The nap was all-too-brief, but he does feel slightly better for having slept.

 

They’re met by the producer, who ushers them in right away, tutting about the fact that they’re late. Vegard rolls his eyes at Bård, who smiles back. Nevermind the fact that they’d just disrupted their entire day to come here. 

 

“This better be good,” Bård whispers as they step into the elevator up to the studio.

 

“I’m sure it won’t be,” Vegard whispers back. “But how bad could it be?”

 

The door opens and they step out. Immediately, they’re ushered into the studio to sit across from the host.

“Today we’re going to play an animal sounds guessing-game,” she announces. 

 

Bård looks at Vegard, who seems to be struggling not to laugh. He swallows, and suddenly the burning pain is back, worse than ever. His hand goes to his throat almost involuntarily, as though that can help it somehow. Nothing’s helping. The studio lights are too bright but at the same time he’s freezing, and the walls don’t seem to want to stay still. The host’s voice is grating and her thick accent is difficult to understand, especially when he’s feeling this bad.

 

Vegard, on the other hand. He’s practically enjoying this. Asshole. 

 

Finally it wraps up after what seems like an eternity, but is really probably only more like half an hour. Bård gets up slowly. The only good thing about the interview was that they’d been allowed to sit down.

 

“I take it back,” Vegard mumbles in the elevator back down to street level. “That was our lowest point.”

 

Bård nods, not trusting his voice. 

 

“Just one more show,” Vegard promises. “Dinner, then show, then home. No more.”

 

Bård nods again. 

 

“Just try to cheer up, okay? It’s a only a little longer, and then we’re done. You can make it.”

 

“Of course I can,” Bård whispers. “I can make it. It’s only a few more hours.”

 

He closes his eyes against the pounding in his head and just wishes he felt more sure of that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I met Ylvis I met Ylvis I met Ylvis in Toronto!* And now writing RPF feels rly weird. Still totally gonna do it though.
> 
> Chapter 4: in which shit goes down.

“Eat.”

 

Vegard’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “What?”

 

“Eat.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

The look that Vegard gives him is so severe that Bård feels himself shiver involuntarily.

 

“Bård. Eat.”

 

He knows better than to argue with that tone of voice, even if his stomach is hurting. Whether that’s from hunger or otherwise, he’s not sure, but he’s not about to risk it before going onstage. He chooses a banana. Bananas are safe. Vegard gives him a look but he ignores it, focussing on getting each piece down. It sits uneasily, but he closes his eyes and breathes deeply until it finally settles.

 

“Relax,” Vegard says softly. “It’s one more show.”

 

“I’m fine,” he lies. 

 

“That’s good.” And he goes back to playing with his phone.

 

“I’m fine,” Bård says again softly, as if the act of saying it out loud makes it true. It isn’t true. Oh God, it isn’t true. The only good thing is that without the costumes on, no one bothers them, so if he wants to sit on the couch and try to doze, he can. 

 

But closing his eyes makes the dizziness worse, and makes him feel hollow, like he isn’t there at all. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe this is all just a dream, brought on by too many late nights scrounging for ideas. This can’t possibly be real, can it? They’re comedians, for fuck’s sake. Not superstars. This isn’t their world. They don’t belong here. 

 

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring into space until Vegard nudges him.

 

“Stop it,” he whispers.

 

Bård turns to look at him. “What?” 

 

“You’ve been staring at that woman for five minutes. I know she’s beautiful, but you can’t do that.”

 

“Oh.” He blinks and turns back. Sure enough, there is a busty blonde across the room, roughly in the direction of where he’d been looking. “I wasn’t.” 

 

“Sure.”

 

He thinks about protesting again, but the effort of talking is too much. Everything hurts, his head, and his throat, and his chest, and the heavy booming bass coming from the stage isn’t helping at all. 

 

“Bård.”

 

He looks up. Vegard has his phone up, taking a picture. He can’t muster up the energy for a smile, but tries to look vaguely presentable. The camera flashes, and he sinks back into the seat.

 

Vegard looks down at the picture he’d taken and then back to Bård, and frowns.

“You’re really pale,” he says. “Are you--”

 

He never gets to complete his sentence as one of the assistants running of the show came over.

 

“You need to get into costume, now,” she says brusquely. “Hurry up, you’re on in ten minutes.” 

 

Bård stands up, repressing a groan, his entire body aching. He follows the aid without a word into the backstage area. He undresses and pulls the costume on without thinking, the movements so familiar now he thinks he could do it in his sleep.

 

Sleep. That would be nice right now. His eyelids are heavy and everything seems to be coming from far away. His vision goes grey and he grabs the edge of the table, hard. When he opens his eyes, Vegard is looking at him curiously.

 

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

 

Vegard gives him a searching look. “Are you?”

 

“You know I am.”

 

“You’ve eaten two bananas today, no wonder you feel like shit.”

 

Bård bristles. “I hate it when you do that.”

 

“Well--”

 

Then the pushy aid is back, ushering them to the stage and Bård forgets his irritation. 

 

He also forgets the words to the song. The song he’s sung so much, the words are burned into his brain. The hosts are introducing them and he can’t think of the words, _he can’t think of the words_.

 

The music starts. The bass reverberates through his bones, too loud and deep. The LED lights swirl and refuse to stay still. Nothing seems real, and suddenly he feels like he’s watching himself perform, like he’s somewhere far far away. His body knows the movements through sheer muscle memory, and the searing pain in his throat tells him that he is, in fact, singing. The backing track is so loud and distorted that no one can tell that he doesn’t _quite_ hit the high notes at the end, but he knows because his vision wavers again with the pain, and he finds himself wondering with clinical disinterest what would happen if he just passed out right there onstage. 

 

Then the audience is roaring with applause and he snaps back to himself and immediately wishes he hadn’t because fucking hell everything hurts worse than before, and he can feel the uncomfortable, clammy sweat inside the costume but at the same time he’s _freezing_ and all he can think of is getting offstage and out of this fucking bear suit and going _home,_ real home, and just making everything _stop_ for awhile. 

 

He bows as low as he dares to, and follows Vegard and the team of dancers back through the backdrop and into the backstage area. All he wants to do is sag against the wall and catch his breath, just for a minute, but immediately they’re being crowded by people with cameras and microphones and _look this way_ and _over here please_ and _send a shout-out to the people back home_ and it’s all he can do to glare into the lenses and hope that it comes off as ‘badass rockstar’ and not ‘tired and in pain and desperate to go home.’

 

“Really, Bård? After all this time?” Vegard asks as they reach the dressing room.

 

“What?”

 

“Dog goes meow.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“That’s what you said.”

 

“Did I?” He frowns and tries to remember. Nothing. The performance feels like one big blur.

 

Vegard sighs. “Yes. You did. We’ve done this song fifty thousand times, and you fucked up the lyrics!

 

“Oh.” He begins to undo the zipper on the costume. The cold air against his damp skin makes him shiver.

 

“Wait, wait, don’t take that off yet.”

 

“What? Why?” 

 

“There’s an after-party we have to go to.”

 

Bård feels his heart drop and he grips the table again. “No,” he says. “No way. You have got to be kidding. I’m not going.”

 

“Yeah, you are.”

 

“Please, Vegard.” He steels himself. “I don’t feel good. I really, really don’t. I want to go home.”

 

“Bård...it’s only for an hour or so. But we have to make an appearance at least.” 

 

“But--”

 

“ _Bård._ We - you - have already fucked up once tonight. I don’t care if you sit in a corner the whole time. You don’t have to socialize. But we have to go.”

 

He opens his mouth again, but he knows it’s useless. So he nods numbly and follows Vegard out of the greenroom towards the VIP lounge. The atmosphere inside is dark and smoky and there are circulating cameras and people with microphones looking for soundbites. He waves away a server with a tray full of complimentary glasses of champaign, and presses himself against the wall.

 

A camera crew approaches them and Vegard takes it, enjoying for once being in the spotlight. Of course he is, Bård thinks. He’s enjoying all of this too much. He must know what’s going on, that Bård is struggling, and he’s taking advantage of it. He’s never been so betrayed in his entire life.

 

The air is heavy with perfume and cologne and the smell of smoke and the chatter of the people around him. Words and words flow over him, words that flit just out of his hearing and out of his mind and he can’t make sense of them no matter how hard he tries. The world tilts dangerously and Bård has to grab the edge of a nearby chair to steady himself. The buzzing in his head is back and he hurts everywhere, and still Vegard is talking to yet another interviewer.

 

Fuck this. He’s had enough, he can’t do this anymore. Vegard is across the room, and Bård decides on the spot that he’s going to march over to him and demand that they go now, or that Vegard lets him go, just _please, for god’s sake, let’s just go._

 

He gives a tight-lipped smile and a shake of the head to an approaching photographer and pushes off from the chair. His legs are shaky, but he takes a deep breath and forces himself onward. It’s a big room and it’s going to take all he has but he _has_ to reach Vegard, he _has_ to. There are black sparkles at the edge of his vision and it’s hard to breath, but he keeps walking. One foot in front of the other, that’s all it is. Just a little farther.

 

“Vegard,” he says when he’s within hearing range, and even as miserable as he is, _fuck_ if he doesn’t feel accomplished, like he just finished running a fucking marathon. “Vegard,” he calls again. 

 

His brother turns to look at him, and his look of wide-eyed concern is the last thing Bård sees before his vision greys out. He takes a faltering step backwards, and suddenly his knees buckle and he realizes he’s falling. 

 

Someone catches him under the arms and lowers him gently to the ground, supporting him in a half-sitting position,

 

“Call an ambulance. He’s burning up.”

 

 _No ambulance_ , he wants to say, but the words won’t come. Someone presses something cool and damp to his forehead, and he groans involuntarily.

 

“Bård!” Vegard sounds panicked. “Open your eyes!”

 

Hm. When had he closed them? Obediently, he opens his eyes. Vegard _looks_ panicked, and that’s rather confusing. 

 

“Keep your eyes open,” he instructs.

 

He wants to. He really does. But the lights are too bright and he’s so tired, surely Vegard won’t mind if he rests, just for a minute.

 

“Bård! Keep your eyes open!”

 

“Try to stay awake, honey.” A woman’s voice, behind him. “Help is coming.”

 

_Don’t need help. Just need to sleep._

 

“Where the fuck are the paramedics?! Bård! Open your eyes! _Åpne øynene dine!_ ”

 

_I’m too tired._

 

“Bård, please stay awake!”

 

_No. I don’t think I will._

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I did it. I did the thing. The chapter was getting too long so I split it again. 
> 
> On the other hand, all my exams are done so I should be faster about getting the last part out.

 

“Your brother is very sick.”

 

The doctor’s words rain down on Vegard, each one like a knife and he feels like physically cringing away, only he won’t because he’s not a coward, and right now, Bård needs him to be strong and pay attention.

 

Blood pressure - low. Oxygen - low. Heart rate - slightly elevated. Temperature - 103 degrees. Blood tests and bacteria cultures and white cell counts; the numbers wash over him and he can’t quite make sense of it other than: it’s not good.

 

And the worst part: Bård still hasn’t woken up. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his brother so still and quiet, and he looks far too young lying there with an oxygen mask covering his face and an IV in his hand. 

 

“But he’s going to be all right?” He hates himself for phrasing at as a question. Of course Bård is going to be all right. Of course he is.

 

The doctor sighs and adjusts his glasses. “We’re still running some tests.”

 

He knows it’s just a formality, that the doctor _has_ to say that until he knows anything for sure, but it’s still like a punch in the gut. “How long is that going to take?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What can we do in the mean time then?”

 

“In the mean time, I’ve prescribed some broad-spectrum antibiotics, since I’m almost certain this is some kind of bacterial infection. That’s being administered intravenously, as well as rehydrating fluids - your brother was quite dehydrated - and also a mild painkiller and fever reducer.”

 

“But when will he wake up?”

 

“When he can. I will say it again -- your brother is very sick. He should never have been on stage performing tonight. He should not have gotten out of bed this morning.”

 

It couldn’t have hurt more than if the doctor had stabbed him in the gut. He looks away, unable to meet his eyes, until he hears the curtain close and the footsteps leading away. Then it’s only him and Bård, and he doesn’t know what to do, so he just holds his hand and smoothes the blanket. Bård has never liked hospitals.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he sighs, but of course, he _had_ , repeatedly. Even at the first show he’d nearly fallen asleep in Vegard’s arms backstage, and Bård is always clingy when he’s sick. And now...and now...

 

“They’re taking good care of you,” he whispers. “Don’t worry. You’re going to feel so much better soon.”

 

He leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of the railing and closes his eyes, but finds no comfort. All he can see is Bård falling, over and over again, and the flash of panic that still hasn’t left. There’s an anxious buzzing in his limbs, that makes him want to do something or go somewhere or anything just to make it stop, but he knows it won’t until he knows his brother will be okay

 

(of course he’ll be okay)

 

and when he finally wakes up, and Vegard can apologize, over and over, as long as it takes.

 

~~~

Bård becomes _aware_ of things before really waking up. A steady beeping. Muffled voices. Pressure against his mouth and nose that actually makes it easier to breathe. His right hand stings a little and he curls and uncurls his fingers, trying to work it out. 

 

“Bård?”

 

Vegard. He still isn’t entirely sure where he is, but knowing that his brother is nearby makes it better.

 

“Come on, open your eyes.”

 

Hm. Where has he heard that before? There’s something he should know, should remember, but he can’t. Vegard will know, though. Vegard knows everything. So he opens his eyes. 

 

“Oh fuck,” Vegard breathes, and he’s crying and Bård is terrified because Vegard _never_ cries, _ever,_ so obviously something terrible has happened. 

 

“What happened?” he asks, or tries to ask, but the pressure against his face won’t let him, and he blinks in surprise. It’s a mask, he realizes with a groan. An oxygen mask, which can only mean that he’s landed himself in the hospital. Again. 

 

_Oh god I fucked up_

 

He reaches up and pushes the mask off, noting the IV line in his hand, and the pulse monitor clipped to the first finger of his left hand. He wants to make a joke about how they’ve really got him tied down, huh, but the words jumble up in his mind, so he settles for trying to sit up a little, and asking “what’s going on?”

 

Only his mouth is so dry, he can’t make a sound at all. Vegard snaps to attention so fast it’s almost comical and helps him drink from a small paper cup.

 

“Ice chips,” he says. “Hold it in your mouth, let it melt down your throat”

 

Bård does. The ice cold water does feel nice in his burning throat, and he quickly finishes off the rest of the cup.

 

“What happened?” he asks at last.

 

( _I fucked up)_

 

“What do you remember?”

 

He thinks. Everything seems like a blur - he knows they performed, but he can’t remember anything about it. “I don’t know.”

 

“You passed out after we came offstage. At the after party.”

 

He groans in embarrassment, glad he doesn’t remember that. Then he frowns. They’d been wearing their costumes, he knows that much, but now he’s in an ugly blue patient gown. 

 

“Vegard,” he gasps. “The costume. They didn’t cut it off, did they?” Oh fuck, those aren’t even their costumes, if it was damaged...

 

( _I really fucked up)_

 

“No, no, relax. It’s fine. It’s over there, in the bag. Just relax, okay? The doctor will be in in a minute, he’ll want to talk to you.”

 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Bård mumbles.

 

The look that flashes across Vegard’s face can only be described as _stricken_ and he takes a sharp breath, but anything he was about to say is interrupted as the same doctor from before sweeps open the curtain.

 

“Ah good, he’s awake.” He turns to Vegard. “Does your brother understand English?”

 

“Yes,” Vegard says indignantly, but thinks again. Bård is still sleepy and somewhat out of it, and this is important. “ _Do you want me to translate?_ ” he asks quietly.

 

Bård bites his lip, then nods. The words don’t mean much - severe streptococcal infection, high fever, low blood pressure, dehydration, exhaustion. There’s only one thing that matters.

 

“When can I get out of here?”

 

The doctor purses his lips. “You’re very sick. The infection is quite serious, and it’s lucky you came in when you did. Another day or so, and you’d be in the intensive care unit. Three more days, and it might have been too late. Strep infections that have been going on for a long time -- your brother says you’ve had this for a few weeks -- are dangerous because they can spread to other areas of the body, such as the kidneys. We’ll be monitoring that closely. You’re going to be here for a few days, at least. You’re quite run down.”

 

He bites his lip again even though the words are not what he wanted to hear. Almost involuntarily, he feels his throat start to tighten and that prickly feeling behind his eyes, and he blinks rapidly. He won’t cry. He won’t. It’s just that the situation is so overwhelming and everything hurts and he’s just so tired and...

 

“It’s okay,” Vegard says in a low voice. “Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.”

 

Bård opens his eyes. The doctor is gone and once again, it’s just him and Vegard in the tiny curtained area.

 

“Vegard,” he says softly. “I think I fucked up.”

 

“What? No! No! Bård, no, you didn’t, you didn’t fuck up, I did. I’m sorry, Bård, I’m so sorry.” He looks away but not before Bård can see that there are tears in his eyes, and somehow that’s worse than anything. “I just got so caught up in everything, I should never have pushed you so hard, I don’t know why...I just...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Hey.” Bård reaches out with his left hand, and Vegard grabs it and holds it tight. The fatigue is setting in with a vengeance and its all he can do to keep his eyes open. They need to talk, but now isn’t the time. “Later, okay?” he asks. “We’ll talk, later. I think I just want to sleep for awhile.”

 

“Right, of course,” Vegard says. He stands up and adjusts the blanket over Bård’s chest. “If you need anything, just say. Anything.”

 

He shivers despite himself. “Maybe...can I have another blanket?”

 

“Of course. Let me just go find the nurse...” he makes to pull away but Bård grips his hand, suddenly unwilling to be left alone in this strange place. 

 

“Please don’t leave?” he asks.

 

“Okay. Okay, I’m not. I’m just going to...here, this button here...”

 

Bård nods, letting his eyes fall shut. He hears the curtain moving and voices, too low to make out what they’re saying, and then footsteps walking away.

 

“Okay.” Vegard’s voice is quiet. “She’s just gone to get you a blanket out of the warmer.”

 

 _A blanket warmer,_ Bård thinks distantly. _What will they think of next?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done!! SAP ALERT - so sappy it turns into goo. 
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who has followed, given kudos, and commented on this story (and I'm working on catching up with comments, I'm the worst). I'm so glad you've enjoyed it and I hope you'll enjoy this last chapter, and the stuff I'll be working on after!

Much later, Bård opens his eyes to find himself in a new place. A real room, instead of some flimsy curtains. The oxygen mask is gone, but the IV is still there, along with the clip on his other finger. 

 

Vegard is sitting in the chair next to the bed, leaned forward with his head and arms pillowed on the side of the mattress, fast asleep. He looks exhausted, and Bård decides not to wake him despite the fact that he’s going to have an awful backache when he wakes up. But when he yawns and stretches a little, that’s enough. Vegard snaps awake and sits up. 

 

“Hey,” he says softly.

 

“Why are you sleeping there?” Bård asks. “There’s a perfectly good bed right behind you. Unless...it belongs to someone else.” Oh, shit, there’s something he hasn’t thought of --

 

“No, no, don’t worry. Private room, courtesy of TVNorge. They don’t want their biggest moneymakers being gawked at.”

 

He huffs a laugh. How charmingly cynical.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Vegard asks anxiously.

 

Bård smiles. “Great.” It’s true. His throat barely hurts, the headache has faded into a faint throb behind his eyes and he hasn’t felt this well-rested in a long time. “How long was I out?”

 

“About twelve hours.”

 

“ _Helvete.”_

 

“It’s okay, you needed it. Here, I went back to the hotel and got some things...” he gets up an opens the small bag lying on the other chair. “Your phone, your computer, your glasses and your sweater...”

 

He takes his favourite grey sweater gratefully, but between the IV line in one hand and the pulse monitor on the other he can’t figure out how to put it on, so settles for putting it over him like a blanket.

 

Vegard’s phone beeps and he looks at it cautiously and sighs. “Fuck.”

 

“Who is it?” Bård asks, although he has the sinking feeling that he knows.

 

“Media. Reporters, journalists...we’ve already put out an official statement - sorry, it couldn’t wait til you woke up - and Legal back home is working on getting all photos and videos squelched --”

 

Bård lets his head fall back against the pillow with a groan.

 

“And when you’re feeling up to it, you’ll want to put something on Twitter or Facebook or whatever. Just to let the fans know you’re not dead. There’ve been a lot of messages.” 

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah. Everyone wants a piece of us - to know that you’re okay, and to rip the fuck out of me.”

He sits up. “What?”

 

“Yeah. Not the fans. Not the bosses, either. But the others - Mum, Dad...Calle had some pretty sharp words for me. Even Magnus got in a few shots.”

 

“Well, that’s stupid. This has nothing to do with you.”

 

“Doesn’t it?” And the despair, and sorrow and remorse in his voice is almost more than Bård can take, and he needs to stop him before he can start apologizing again.

 

“You look like shit,” he says softly. “When was the last time you slept?” 

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

“The hell it doesn’t. Go lie down over there.”

 

“But...”

 

“Go on. There’s no sense in both of us getting sick, and I’m not going to spontaneously die if you lie down for a few hours.”

 

“ _Don’t_ talk that way.” Vegard glares at him, then folds his arms and leans forward against the side of mattress.

 

“No, on the bed. You’re going to ruin your back.”

 

“Maybe that’s my punishment.”

 

“Don’t be like that.” The steel in Bård’s tone is enough to make Vegard look up. “Go. In the bed. Now.”

 

“Yes, Mama.” He gets up and sprawls out on the other bed, repressing a groan, and closes his eyes.

 

He thinks he must have only blinked, but when he opens his eyes again the nagging pain behind his eyes from overtiredness is gone, and a discreet look at his phone tells him four hours have passed. He yawns and stretches, and becomes aware of a soft _click-click-click_ ing sound.

 

“You’d better be looking at pictures of kittens,” Vegard says sternly.

 

Bård looks up from typing on his laptop with a sheepish smile. “Don’t worry. Calle already threatened to fly out here and break my fingers if I email him again.”

 

Vegard snorts. “Listen to him. You know he will.”

 

“Oh, I know.” 

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

Bård rolls his eyes. “Fine. Really.”

 

“You look better.”

 

“So do you.”

 

“Yeah, well I --”

 

They fall silent as a nurse walks in to take Bård’s vitals. 

 

“So when can I get out of here?” he asks. “I feel great.”

 

The nurse gives him an odd look. “Well, seeing as you’re still running a fever of 101.9, it’s going to be a little while yet.”

 

“101.9?” Vegard asks. “I thought you said you were feeling better!”

 

“Well it isn’t 103, is it?”

 

“Your oxygen saturation and blood pressure are also still rather low, you’re still dehydrated, and somewhat malnourished. You’re a little underweight in general, actually. Have you been eating properly?”

 

Vegard looks at him so sharply he can almost feel it physically. “ _Because my throat hurt_ ,” he says lowly, in Norwegian. “ _It hurt too much to eat. Really. That’s all it is._ ”

 

Vegard looks away, unable to meet his brother’s eyes. _He’s still so sick_ , he thinks, _and yet, he claims that he feels fine. He looks fine. He looks...normal. Or have we all gotten so used to seeing him tired and run-down all the time that this is what we think his normal is?_

 

He looks down at his phone as the nurse finishes up her inspection and leaves. Calle’s text message catches his eye.

 

_So much for ‘always.’_

 

“You’re taking a break,” he says out loud.

 

“Huh?”

 

“When we get back home. You’re taking a break. Three weeks, minimum.”

 

“I don’t--”

 

“ _Yes,_ you _do!_ Look at you! You’re in the fucking hospital and you’re still trying to work! And the whole reason you’re in the hospital is because you wouldn’t stop even when you were sick...which is actually my fault because I kept pushing you, because I should have known...you could have died...”

 

“I really don’t think I would have died.”

 

“You could have...” And dammit, he’s tearing up again. This must set some kind of record. “You’re in here because of me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...”

 

“Vegard, stop it. Come here. And stop crying, that’s just weird.”

 

He laughs despite himself and walks over to the bed. Bård puts his arms around him, and despite the awkward angle, just hugs him tight. 

 

“This is not your fault,” he says.

 

“I made you a promise once,” Vegard whispers into his hair. “And this week I broke that promise.”

 

“And I made you a promise,” Bård answers. “That I would take care of myself. That I would be...better. I broke that promise too.”

 

“But --”

 

“Be quiet, Vegard.” He lets go and looks up at him. “So we both broke our promises. Things aren’t the same now. Our lives are so different. We aren’t the same people anymore. Maybe I’ve been too dependent on you, all these years. Maybe we need to start again.”

 

Vegard smirks. “When did you get so wise?”

 

“I’ve always been the wise one, not my fault you never noticed.”

 

“Little shit.” 

 

“Dork.”

 

“Sunflower.”

 

“ _Don’t_ call me that.” Bård scowls at the hated childhood nickname. He’s tempted to keep going, to be a smartass and say something like _we were having a moment, why’d you have to go and ruin it with that_ but Vegard still seems fragile and he won’t push him any farther. He seems to be doing that to himself well enough.

 

“We’re going to be all right,” he says instead.

 

“Better than all right, I reckon,” Vegard answers. 

 

“As long as we look after each other. Promise?”

 

“Promise. Always?”

 

Bård just hugs him again.

 

“Always.”

 


End file.
